The rules were established in advance: he was the hiring manager, she was the desperate applicant. Whatever happened in the 'interview' was part of the scene. The office was their bedroom, rearranged with a desk and two chairs.
"Send in the next candidate," Robert said into an imaginary intercom.
Jennifer entered, resume in hand, playing nervous. They'd done this before, but each time the scenario evolved, deepened.
"So," Robert said, reviewing her fictional resume, "you're looking for a position in our company. What makes you think you're qualified?"
The interview proceeded professionally—questions about experience, skills, aspirations. But underneath, the power dynamic hummed. He was evaluating. She was performing. Everything was normal and nothing was.
"I must say," Robert said eventually, "you're qualified on paper. But we're looking for someone with... additional flexibility. Someone willing to do what it takes."
Jennifer's breath caught. Here was the turn, the moment when pretense began to slip.
"I'm very flexible," she said. "I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."
What followed was negotiation—not of salary, but of submission. Each suggestion pushed further, tested boundaries, revealed how far they'd go together.
The beauty of role play was the permission it gave. In 'real life,' these dynamics might feel difficult to initiate. But as characters, they could be explicit about desire, direct about power, clear about what they wanted.
By the end, the interview had long since ended. They were themselves again, tangled on the floor beside the desk they'd built, laughing at the intensity of their own pretending.
"You're hired," Robert murmured.
"What's my first assignment?"
"Research for next week's scenario. I'm thinking professor and student."
Jennifer grinned. Already planning her character, her costume, her lines. The game never really ended. It just paused between scenes.